


The Slave King and the Witch Queen

by ilovealistair



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blatant fix it fic, Multi, TW - slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-07-28 05:58:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7627768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilovealistair/pseuds/ilovealistair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>My grammar will not be correct, I’m sorry for that. Also, it is unclear if Romans could serve multiple terms at their offices so for the sake of the story they are allowed to.</p><p>http://spartacusmeta.tumblr.com/post/51329521126/vrabia-alemonlemoned-so-can-we-just-talk<br/>*the above link helps explain some of my feelings.</p><p>This will quickly turn into an Ashur/Oc fic. This is not because I think Ashur is a misunderstood woobie but Nick Tarabay's incredible acting, attractiveness and off-screen humor captured my attention. That said, this is also me indulgently wishing there was two of him.</p><p>Disclaimer - I own nothing</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. luctor et emergo- “I struggle and emerge”

**Author's Note:**

> My grammar will not be correct, I’m sorry for that. Also, it is unclear if Romans could serve multiple terms at their offices so for the sake of the story they are allowed to.
> 
> http://spartacusmeta.tumblr.com/post/51329521126/vrabia-alemonlemoned-so-can-we-just-talk  
> *the above link helps explain some of my feelings.
> 
> This will quickly turn into an Ashur/Oc fic. This is not because I think Ashur is a misunderstood woobie but Nick Tarabay's incredible acting, attractiveness and off-screen humor captured my attention. That said, this is also me indulgently wishing there was two of him.
> 
> Disclaimer - I own nothing

Numeria Fabia Ambustus doesn’t consider herself a coward but truthfully her retreat from Rome is simply that, a retreat. After losing her husband and her infant son, she cannot stand being in the apartment anymore. With haste born of grief she takes part of her household to Capua, the rest sent to her fathers’ villa. Her first husband’s kinsman had owned a small villa in the city and she wished for quieter thoughts. Though she ached for her family, it would have to be put aside. Nero and Vopiscus were still in the provinces. Their letters, while heartfelt, were pale shadows of the men she wanted by her side. Worse yet, Naphtali was in Britannia tending to her affairs. Her brother-in-law and sister had remained in Rome. Titus was eligible and campaigning for Aedile.

That left Numeria alone with her two young sons for two months at the very minimum. Hardly a blessing, too tired to be of much use to anyone. But the journey gives purpose, fills her head with thoughts of heat and dust and strategy rather than tears. When they arrive, the villa is in remarkable shape for the staff housed in it. Tiberius Livius Drusus had been a Cornicen in the legions before becoming a tribune. This villa was a symbol of his personal wealth and a gift to his wife, the daughter of a rich merchant who he had allied with.

But his luck would turn sour, his wife dying from complications of a stillbirth and his own demise at political rivals. While they had not been close, she had found him to be a decent man and felt anger at the news of his murder. With no heirs, the property went to his brother Gaius minor, a Signifier. Gaius had disapproved of his sister-in-law’s remarriage, feeling that her husband was below her, a flight of fancy that would pass when grief settled. It had only been grudgingly that he had accepted the union, brief though it was.

Andrasta above, had it really been so short a time?

With a slight shock, she realizes it has. A decade with Titus, less with Nefekara.

Gods willing, her luck will turn.

 

 

She’s dressed in a deep blue gown, ocean patters sewn into the skirt of it. Heavy gold necklaces and bracelets adorn her, a conscious show of her families’ wealth. Numeria had wondered who would be chosen for her, had feared her father’s choices, but it was her brother-in-law Titus Rabirius Gryllus who chose this man. Titus, a tribune in the same legion as the other man, found his wifeless companion ‘acceptable’ for his beloved sister-in-law. This man being another tribune, higher ranked than him.

Titus Livius Drusus had the look of his branch, soft brown hair over palish skin, sun browned rather than his natural color. He’s of average height with a short, neatly trimmed beard. His most striking feature is his eyes, like two pieces of glass.

Against her father’s wishes the ceremony is plain. It matters little to her, the property bought with the money saved is more to her interests. Her wedding night is better than she expected, her new husband considerate of her pain and conscious of her pleasure.

It’s better than many others, she knows.

 

 

She was a fool for hoping. For the last season the Gods had rained shit upon her, why stop in a new location? In the gardens Gaius had greeted her and her entourage, kissing her cheek in warm affection, hugging her first born Titus close and exclaiming he was his father made over. He was seven, she confirmed with amused grace. But he barely spared Senedj a glance, mildly commenting that he had inherited his mother’s blue eyes before leading them inside.

Wine is passed around liberally, loosening tongues so they may speak more freely with one another. It is only at sunset that Gaius gives voice to poisonous thoughts.

“Fear has taken root in heart, dear sister. Suspicions long held have proved true. Tullius, a merchant in this city, murdered our brother and poisoned our sister.” Gaius’s hands shake as he grips his wine glass. “Evidence shows him to be a partner to the slaver pirates that were bold enough to strike against the Iceni and the Trinovantes. His kinsman, an officer (*) in Rome, informed him of who exactly made the order to cease slaving in the territory.”

“And has this kinsman been seen to?” she asks, fingers laced together in her lap. Her long black braid of hair is across her shoulder, nearly a match to the deep blue of her gown.

“To the best of my considerable abilities,” Gaius leers, teeth on display like a dog.

“And this Tullius? The man still draws breath?”

“We’ve tried to poison him,” Gaius admits. “But after three failed attempts poison was discarded.”

“So the villian knows face?”

“Tullius suspects many. The man has developed two distinct reputations.”

“Such men are common in Rome,” Numeria states calmly, toying with her braid as she thinks. “And news of lost loved ones?”

“He was not involved in Nefekara’s death, nor Nebra’s.” Gaius says the names hesitantly, but with no malice or disgust. It’s the best she can hope for, for now. “Senator Fabius supported the union, but perhaps others desired hand. That beloved brother was Quaestor in name only was not high kept secret.”

It is not a possibility she had thought of. There had been more than a handful that had sneered at her ‘willful ambition’. But then, there had also been some that had openly admired it.

“There are some who might be capable of such a thing. Fewer still who would use a blade and not poison. To go as far as to kill a babe.”

“Any of the Claudii, some Julii,” Gaius lists off. “After that, who knows.”

Darks thoughts followed by dark plots. Gaius promised that their families were looking into the matter, but for now it was time to focus on the merchant.

 

Numeria’s plan was simple; gain an audience with the man, multiple if she had to, and then kill him at first opportunity. Such was easier said than done. Dressed in a gray tunic and freshly polished boots, she hoped to cut a modest figure.

Opportunity rose in the form of a Gaul. He fights one of the foremen, a shit of a man and likely a deserved beating. The other man rises his whip against the Gaul when two men intervene. Boldly, foolishly, the man offers 50 denarii for the slave. A handsome sum, more than he is worth. A lanista, by his little speech.

Who is Numeria to turn from a gift such as this?

“Here!” She calls, pulling out her own purse. “I’ll loan you 20 denarii.”

“Such a generous offer,” the thin brunette replies, looking surprised. “But charity-”

“Not charity,” she cuts him off. “As I said, a loan. I’d like an audience with Tullius myself.”

“As the lady requests,” his fair haired friend smiles, hand gripping the thin man’s shoulder warningly. “Your name?”

“Numeria Fabia Ambustus,” she replies. “Daughter of Senator Gaius Fabius Ambustus.”

“Solonius,” the fair haired man replies.

“Quintus Batiatus,” the thin man answers, looking like he’s choking on spit for a moment. “Your name travels far Good Fabia! What is the news in Rome?”

“The same as ever, I suppose. Elections are coming soon.”

“Ah yes!” Solonius says. “If you would allow, we could retire to dear friends’ villa? Such business is better discussed in the shade.”

She agrees, ready to leave the heat herself. Both men prove to be bootlickers, hungry for any scrap of coin. The brunette in particular seems to desire more than is proper, but she has seen many of his kind before. Numeria is plied with the best wine in the house and, she notices wryly, the handsomest slaves.

“Your patronage would be greatly appreciated for the House of Batiatus. Such a woman as yourself, you have a taste for the arena?”

“Some, though being a soldier’s wife stifles my enjoyment. Still,” she adds as dismay enters the man’s eyes, “I find it interesting.”

“Many do,” the man rushes in, hoping to regain lost ground. “A soldier’s wife. The glory of the arena reminds you of your husband?”

“At times,” she allows. “His father is a great supporter of the games, owning a ludus in Mediolanum.”

“And much of the wine country surrounding it.”

So he knows her family.

“Yes. It is a source of wealth that kinsman Gaius the elder greatly enjoys.” She lets him stew for a moment, watching him fidget slightly. “My answer, gentlemen, remains the same. Should my investment in your Gaul grant me audience with Tullius, then more coin shall be granted. It is not a truly important thing, but I do this as a favor for my brother-in law Gaius the younger. His patronage would surely be guaranteed as well,” she smiles, watching the men’s eyes grow wide.

Fire alights Batiatus’s eyes. “Then we are of joined purpose, Good Fabia. I’ll see your investment profit.”

“As I will do in turn.”

 

Batiatus delivers in the form of a brawl in the streets like bandits. Vettius, his main rival, tosses barbs like a spoilt child, but heels at the merchants’ hand.

“Lady Fabia,” he greets her, bowing deeply. “You honor us with your presence.”

“I’ve heard Batiatus had the best gladiators in Capua and come to see title won,” she replies, “and to speak with you on behalf of beloved father-in law.”

“The people have waited long enough,” Vettius mutters, but quails under Tullius’ glare.

But Batiatus has made a fools bet, boasting that his man could best the boys blindfolded. The gladiator takes the choice out of his master’s hand, showing valor as he asks for the blindfold. She takes the blindfold from the boy and puts it on herself, a show of favor for Gannicus and his ludus. He fights with brutal efficiency and ferocity, not unlike how Titus trained her to fight, though at substantially kinder hands. With a move that leaves the crowd screaming, he lays open his opponents’ throat.

Tullius speaks with Batiatus and extends the invitation to speak with her the following morning. It’s a trap, whether the thin man knows it or not. With a smile as sharp as her favored dagger, she accepts the invitation.

 

 

At 15, she does not expect to get any more schooling then she already has received. Numeria knows Latin as well as any orator or statesman, though with admittedly less skill. She was better with figures, with mathematics in general than anyone in her family, save perhaps Naphtali. Father bemoaned the fact that she was born a woman, that her gender was the only thing keeping her from being elected Quaestor.

Titus was bolder than her father, more willing to bend and break rules if it suited his needs. While he was only 34, he wanted more power for himself, more prestige for his line. He hires her the best tutors available to help her learn, to forward their joined ambitions.

TItus is made Quaestor of Corsica and Sardinia and is promised a promotion after his tenure is over by father after a long, drawn out campaign. While she is only 19 she has been well prepared and together they run the province. By the end of the second year Titus is comfortable letting her run the islands by herself while he suppresses uprisings.

It is also where she begins ‘military training’, so to speak. Titus had grown concerned and believed that even the women of his clan should be able to defend themselves, if only so long as to get away from an attacker. Numeria was no stranger to war games; for all that she and her closest friend Nero acted like children together they also trained and he had put forth similar objections. She knew how to handle a dagger decently but had never learned swordplay.

Titus sees to her instruction well.

 

 

Numeria comes a bit later, guards armed and ready for combat. She arrives nearly too late, but a dismount from above has a dagger in Vettius’s skull and her guards take the others. Tullius runs but not quite fast enough; a throwing knife catches him, severing ear from head in a spray of blood. His steps falter but keep on, vanishing down a dark alley.

“Halt!” she orders when two of her guards make to follow. “Pursue the fuck later, we need a medicus now!”

One of her men perished, but only Tullius escaped. An acceptable loss.

For now.

 

A week passes, the three of them laying low. Her brother-in-law scolds her for her recklessness but agrees that it was the right course. Her slain guard is lain to rest and she tries to plan her next move. But when no word comes from the House of Batiatus, only from wife that he yet draws breath spurs her into action. She arrives, as before, almost too late. One of the trainee gladiators is acting like a child, playful as he asks for mercy. In poor show of temper, Batiatus condemns the fool to the mines. It’s an aggravation, too like the actions she sees too often in Rome. Numeria has one of the slave girls, Diona perhaps, take her to the man’s office. By then though, other matters take up interest.

Varus, a rich man both here and in Rome. Certainly his influence could help her and her father, as well as push forth her plans for Naphtali. Any help is needed, truly. Nefekara has been dead for less than three months, but father will want her to marry soon, and better to repay him for allowing her to marry so far below her station. Even better, Varus has nearly exclusive interest in men; she already has sons, no need to produce an heir.

But her thoughts turn back to the slave. Help him now, snare Varus later.

Batiatus is in the middle of a screaming fit at his Doctore when she arrives. He pauses, visibly checking himself.

“Lady Fabia,” he bows, and the slaves kneel around her like ripples in a pond. “How may I assist you?”

“I came to purchase the slave you’re sending to the mines,” she states baldly. “What is his name?”

“Indus, Lady Fabia,” the Doctore answers, still kneeling with eyes averted.

“He catches your interest?” Batiatus asks in surprise, perhaps suspicion.

“As you said, we are absent bodyguards. He’s been trained with a sword, which is enough for the post.”

“It would be weakness,” Batiatus gives a token protest.

“It would be making a profit,” she counters. “Does 10 denarii sound fair?”

“Perhaps 13, since, as you said, the man is already trained?”

Hardly anything to her. “Done. I have other business to discuss, but that can be dealt with after I meet with Senator Varus.” She makes to leave but Batiatus follows, Doctore and the other guards on his heels.

“I had heard he was arriving in Capua,” Batiatus calls out, “but not the purpose.”

“To buy gladiators from Vettius for the Vinalia. Obviously Vettius will not arrive but he can be brought here. If I can arrange it, the magistrate will join us.”

“Such high company! Your presence brings honor and wealth as a shadow!” The man praises, but she ignores it, black braid thumping her back as she mounts her horse.

“Be ready in three hours time,” she orders. “Then we shall talk business.”

 

Varus is at first openly insulted that Tullius did not meet him personally, then worried when she tells him his man Vettius was murdered. Allowing him to kiss her cheek, she pulls back to study him. Still the same man she remembers, fun loving and arrogant at a glance. Perhaps with acquaintances he could appear regal but she knows him too well to see anything but a gilded serpent.

They arrive at Batiatus’ villa, Numeria speaking poison about Tullius and his ilk all the while. Lucretia and Gaia are waiting in the villa, dressed to entertain the God Mars himself. Conversation is steered towards the ludus, pressed further when Batiatus shows off his stock. Gaia points out the Gaul, Crixus, to the lanista’s annoyance. To his credit, he puts on a good show against the champion of the house, though Varus only sees perhaps half.

Gaia guides the man inside for other pleasures, one the three of them know well. Lucretia as well, she guesses, with a close friend such as the raven haired woman. Batiatus looks ready to growl but controls himself.

“Gaia is correct,” she attempts to soothe the man. “While unfortunate, this is the fastest and securest way.”

 

She aches for the indignities the two slaves suffer, the gladiator and the handmaiden, but she can think of nothing else to seal the deal. It shames her, but the best she can do is quietly warm some water for the woman, quieting her protests, and leaving her in solitude. Numeria has no idea what to do for the Celt, so she takes her leave to a guest room.

In the morning Batiatus proudly announces Gannicus’s place in Varus’s primus as well as Oenomaus’s last game and the others their little scene has secured. The sick, sullen look on the Celt’s face gives her pause, as it should, but now is not the time.

Still feeling unrested from the previous night, she returns home to recuperate. Titus is overjoyed to see her, the seven year old tugging her towards his tutor by the skirt.

“Mother! Today we are learning about Sicilia! Isn’t that where Grandfather was Praetor?”

“It was. He was Governor there as well.” Numeria kisses the top of her son’s head. His hair is deep chestnut, darker than his fathers but lighter than her own black. While still thin, she has no doubt he’ll grow into a strong frame.

Senedj is with his nurse and Indus. Indus is watching over them diligently, no doubt still grateful for his rescue from the mines maw. Like her and his father, Senedj’s hair is darkest black and he shares his father’s inky eyes. While only two, she believes he’s more intelligent than most and certainly of kinder temperament.

Gaius speaks with her briefly. Tullius is in hiding but has been found. His wounds have been treated by a local medicus but is still too weak to venture outside until the wound heals further. An attack is planned, made to look like a robbery gone violent. So close to their end goal, she decides to leave talk of Varus for the future.

 

Numeria returns to the House of Batiatus first thing in the morning to learn that the paterfamilias has arrived, spurred on by word of Solonius. The older man’s reaction is mixed; while perfectly respectful of her rank the question of how she came to purchase from his son is clear in his eyes and tone. Like an angry dog, she can also see the son’s hackles raising.

“As you are aware, the Floralia is fast approaching. During my stay in Capua I have heard stories about the ferocity and honor of your man Oenomaus. I have also heard of his injuries suffered at the hands of Theokoles. When I came here I wanted to ask for him to fight his last match in my primus for Floralia but Senator Varus has taken that honor, in the form of a lesser match.”

“And what an honor it is, to fight one last time in such an important event, though it is not so esteemed,” the older man agrees. “But we may still come to an agreement. You are very generous, good Fabia.”

“Gratitude,” she nods. “I would not take away Gannicus’s glory, but perhaps you have other men?”

“Auctus is worthy of note,” the elder states. “He and Barca would be worthy fighters.”

“I have four spots to fill,” she says. “A younger gladiator can take the sport in the morning and Auctus in the primus at nightfall? Barca in the spot before him?”

“Then it is settled!” Batiatus claps his hands, earning a stern look from his father. “Shall we set price over wine?”

“Not yet,” she answers. “I have dealings with the magistrate, but afterwards I will return.”

“May I accompany you, Lady Fabia?” The father asks. “I also have dealings with the magistrate this morn.”

“All the better to discuss the strength of your stock,” she allows.

 

Their return to the villa is met with false smiles and the stink of unwashed man. With a smile and a request to spend time amongst the women of the house she heads to the balcony.

“What happened when we were gone?” She asks flatly, absently noting that one of the slave girls was gone.

“Oh Good Fabia,” the black haired woman starts with one of her eerie smiles, but Numeria cuts her off.

“Considering recent events, lying is not something I would recommend,” she warns, eyes growing cold.

Lucretia clearly has more sense than her friend. “Varus brought a friend, Cossutius, and told him of the pleasures our house offered.”

“And you could hardly have refused. I suppose he used the primus as leverage?”

Lucretia nods, looking guarded. “He and a gladiator…had Diona.”

“Raped, you mean.” Beside them, Naevia makes a choked off sound. “Gaius has talked of the man; he has a reputation for rape and pleasure in torture.”

“That is evident now,” the older woman mutters in disgust. “But what are we to do? He dishonors us by offering no payment.”

“Leave that to me. In the meantime, the matches have been set. It will be Gannicus versus five of Vettius’ former men.”

“The man is dead,” Lucretia says in confusion.

“His household was divided yesterday. Kin claimed the household slaves, a few were sold to a ludus in Nola and the rest were bought by Solonius.”

“And we are not to be included?” She exclaims. “After what Tullius did to my husband?”

“Your men are to be in both Varus’ Primus and mine, the man had to receive something.” And the threat of a lawsuit over the beating of the lanista ensured the remaining kin cut Solonius a deal. At least the fair haired man had the grace to be grateful for his bounty.

Lucretia holds back any more comments, knowing better than to press further.

“And forget Tullius,” Numeria warns. “Soon he will be naught but a bloodstain and a bad memory.”

 

It’s been a trying day and by nightfall all she wants is to sleep. Old habits die hard though, especially when no real move is made to kill them, and tonight she wants to share her bed. Naphtali and Nero are both gone, as much as it irritates her and although Naphtali is on his way back, letters alone will not warm her bed. The female slaves she usually sleeps with are at her fathers’ villa, as is most of her household. When she came to Capua it was with a handful of guards, her sons tutors and Senedj’s nurse; Nebra’s was sent to her father’s with the rest. None of them were ideal partners, but maybe the fresh-faced guard? Yes, he would do just fine.

Numeria has the guard send message for Indus to be bathed before preparing herself for bed, readying her favorite blue and black patterned gown for Varus’s games. For far too long she’s been absent from Rome, from the snake pit she calls home. Varus, while certainly not a godsend, was a Senator and a potential ally for her father.

And should he ever step out of line, a little extra opium was known to cause lethal accidents.

Numeria is looking over Centurion Cotius’s report when Indus comes in, stripped down to a small cloth for modesty and subtly pink from being scrubbed in the baths.

“Are you ready?” She asks, folding up the scroll. Corsica and Sardinia can wait a night.

“Yes, Domina,” he nods, tilting into a shallow bow.

She frowns but says nothing. There will be time enough for him to learn only to call her that in front of important guests. Sighing at the feel of the cool linens as she climbs into bed, she waits for the man to follow. It’s warm enough that she only needs a sheet and a light blanket, but soon even that will be too warm.

Indus hesitantly crawls into bed beside her, laying a large hand on her belly. Nice, but not quite what she wants. Firmly placing a hand on Indus’s chest, she pushes gently until he’s flat on his back. Settling herself along his side, she stretches a bit, trying to find a comfortable spot.

“Domina?” The slave asks, tense as a board underneath her.

“Hush. Now is the time for sleep.”

Indus stays still beneath her, shy as a virgin before the bedding. His uneven breathing keeps Numeria from finding sleep for a time, but the comfort of another body soon sweeps over everything else. In the morning she goes to her reports, letting the man rest.

Cotius sends poor but expected news. He had tried, on her orders, to convince the legatus of his legion to stop allowing slavers into the islands. The excuse was they were uncontrollable, refusing to do as they were bid despite beatings and were quick to kill their masters at the first opportunity. Would it not be better to simply leave them be? To let them tend to their crops and keep their given tributes? Still the legatus remains resistant, standing firm that they should bow to the glory of Rome but agreeing to make some provisions as they were too cheap to be worth much. Progress was progress though and it would be unwise to turn from it.

Indus wakes up as she’s writing a reply, soft and slow for a moment than with a snap when he realizes he’s in her chambers. He scrambles up to stand at attention, causing her to stifle a chuckle.

“Come eat,” she says, pushing a plate of lentils, eggs and figs to the edge of her desk.

Again, hesitantly, he takes a seat on the low stool and starts to eat, savoring the meal.

“Did you sleep well?” She asks, finishing her letter. A small portion at the bottom is personal, reminding Gaius to stay safe and wishing him well on his travels.

“Yes, Domina,” Indus answers. Perhaps sensing she’s looking for a little more than that he continues. “It was gracious of you to allow me to share your bed, though I did not perform my…duty.”

“You performed as instructed,” she corrects. “If I wanted to lay with you I would have said so. You were also free to refuse and still are.”

“This is something you would accept?” Indus asks, sounding thunderstruck.

“I am not some snow haired old goat fucker in Rome,” Numeria spits, getting a shocked look in return. “I am not a rapist nor will I see my own so mistreated. Do you understand?”

Indus nods his head, looking shaken, but there is work to be done. She sends him off to prepare for the games and gets ready herself.

 

 

Numeria had not expected to become close to the members of her husband’s family but she did. Soon she, Nero and Vopiscus, son of Titus’s brother Gaius major, were inseparable. Her former body slave Naphtali was, at least in theory, supposed to act as their minder. In practice, he often helped them plan their pranks and kept lookout.

Naphtali had been a constant presence at her side since infancy, when he was bought as a child to be a playmate for her and her sister. For Numeria, he and Nero were her family, no matter what blood or law said.

It was only later that she learned her perfect playmate, her innocent secret keeper, would wade through blood for them.

 

 

In the arena the next afternoon, Auctus is a force. Varus has asked that Crixus fight as well, remembering his spar with Gannicus earlier. While it’s true that the man fares poorly against the spear, he is no womb-wet babe either. At the very least, he promises to give the crowd a show.

Auctus appears to be the clear-cut winner until a killing blow goes through Crixus’ shield, allowing him to disarm his opponent. A volley of shots follow before Crixus gets a lucky strike in, stabbing Auctus in the shoulder.

He’ll live, but he’ll never be what he once was.

 

 

Before she’s due to give birth to their first child Titus is called away to the north. At the end of their second year in the province, his role as Quaestor has expired. Sulla’s promise had been honored and he had been made Legatus. With that promotion came a mission, to go to Britannia and establish positive relations with the local tribes.

Time passes slowly, but she learns more with every latter he sends her. By the time he returns a year and three months have passed and her son is healthy and hearty, nearing his first year. Plans have been turning in her mind, treason, but noble if treason can be.

 

 

Numeria’s offer to buy Auctus is poorly met, though she understands the sentiment behind the thought. Still, the offer to pay for his medical treatment is enticing to the younger Batiatus and her words of worth soothe the elders.

“Indus guards both my sons closely and he does his duty well but Senedj is growing older. The time when they both need a guard fast approaches.”

For now, they claim, her offer is being thought on. In the meantime Oenomaus is being prepared for his last game. Oenomaus fights well, taking down his opponent with absurd swiftness.

“Not even a mark on him!” Batiatus exclaims, cheering along with the crowd.

“Such a lopsided match. Why not please the crowd and give them a better showing?” Varus asks, sipping his wine.

“Solonius has men available,” Lucretia smiles. “Perhaps another match?” Behind them, Melitta is drawn up, tense like a hunting dog.

“Yes,” Numeria agrees. “What about that new brute of his? Zotikos?”

“A crazed animal,” Gaia dismisses airily, a hand on Varus’s arm. “It would be like fighting a boar.”

“There’s skill and bravery in killing a boar,” Numeria counters, remembering the time she spent with her husband’s legion. Cotius had only been a Decanus then and barely a year older than she was. The locals had complained of a boar that was ruining crops and killing the dogs set to guard the livestock. Fearing for their own supplies, the young man had set out with his men and the Quaestor’s wife. A spear had taken the beast down, keen eyesight spotting it before it could charge. Her impassioned retelling swayed her husband, as did the promise of fresh meat before winter set in and the man was promoted.

“Perhaps at the opening of the games we will have them,” Varus smirks, brushing a hand along her knee.

Gaia briefly looks like she bit into a lemon but Numeria ignores it. “I’ve spent too much time among military men to agree with killing an animal you don’t plan to eat. A few prisoners on the other hand…”

“Excellent idea Lady Fabia,” Varus chuckles, smile seeming to ooze poison.

Varus calls for Oenomaus to return to the sands. The crowd gives a wild scream, blazing with excitement even though the primus has been pushed back. From the other side of the arena four criminals come forth, each armed with a small knife and a shield strapped to their wrist. Like before, the man annihilates his opponents, the only blood he sheds being when one of the men throws his shield, breaking his nose.

“An outstanding victory,” she praises, leaning towards the elder Batiatus.

“Oenomaus is an outstanding man, worthy of the title champion,” the elder smiles, pride making him seem aglow. Beside them, his son scowls.

Cossuitus, the mean spirited fuck, takes delight in the savagery, the wounds meant to maim rather than give quick death or flesh wounds. His cold eyes shine when Gannicus takes to the sands for the primus. So Varus talked about more than the general pleasures of the lanista’s home.

The Celt is a force of nature; Nola sent his five best men for the primus and the man breaks them apart like discarded shit sticks. One even kneels, giving the missio in hopes of mercy. While the crowd howls at the perceived cowardice, Numeria can only laugh.

“Fearsome, is he not? A son of Camulus if I’ve ever seen one.”

“I am afraid I am unfamiliar with their barbaric gods. Who might that be?” Cossutius inquires, turning his pale eyes towards her.

“A war God. Think of a ram horned Mars,” she answers. “A neighboring tribe worships a war goddess, much like Bellona.”

“How odd,” Varus says. “You believe he should receive mercy?”

“A quick death is more mercy than the beating his master will deal him for surrendering in a primus.”

A sword stroke later, his head falls upon the sands.  



	2. testis unus, testis nullus - one witness is not a witness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Capua to Naples (Neapolis) – 27.5 miles  
> Venafrum (Venafro) to Capua - 32.1 miles
> 
> Retiarius – type of gladiator style similar to a fisherman  
> Tesserarius – guard commander  
> Optio – equivalent to a modern Lieutenant, second in command to the Centurion  
> Gallia Cisalpina – side of the Alps closer to Rome  
> Cursus Honorum – sequence of political positions for aspiring politicians  
> Decurio – the leader of a small cavalry unit of 10-30  
> Landica – slang for clitoris  
> Tifata – mountain in Campania and where I believe the ludus is situated  
> Lena – Madame (female pimp)  
> Nexum – Debt bondage  
> *Though nexum as a legal contract was abolished, debt bondage persisted in the case of defaulting debtors, since a court could grant creditors the right to take insolvent debtors as bond slaves. [12]  
> **Wikipedia – source  
> *Curiales – wealthy landowners and the like who oversaw concerns in their district/city  
> *Sestertius – a Roman coin worth a quarter of a denarius  
> *Aureus – a Roman coin worth 25 denarii, made from gold  
> *Venefrum – Ancient town, now the village Venafro  
> *Latin Rights – form of ‘half’ citizenship  
> *Optimates – aristocrats, conservative party which was interested on keeping power with the Senate and the nobility  
> *Populares – the peoples party, concerned with the plebeians (commoners) and the urban poor. Also favored citizenship for their italic allies.  
> *Ancilla – handmaiden/female body slave
> 
> TW – threatening to sell someone into sex slavery, implied rape threat from said threat

The realization of what slavery was took Numeria years to understand. Oh, of course, she believed they shouldn’t be beaten or sent to the mines without good cause; she even believed that no one should be raped, not even a slave, but that was just common sense to her child mind. Slaves were not objects like her mother’s prized vase or her fathers’ chariot; they were better than animals but still a step below them.

And even if they were slaves, they still served Rome and Romans. What could be better than being in the shadow of Rome’s glory?

It took time for her to understand that not all slaves served Romans and not all Romans served Rome. Few Romans, truly, served Rome, not the ones who mattered. Greed and malice had run rampant for too long and like a dead dog flung into the streets to rot, it had soiled everything around it.

 

 

Crixus earns his mark while the Syrians remain bare. A blow to their pride, she is sure, but who knows what the coming days bring. As time goes on, the one who looks so like Naphtali is switched to retiarius but both he and the tall brute train with the sword as well.

With the two Syrians absent the mark, her choice of gladiator’s shrink. Crixus, she decides, will fight one of Solonius’s men in the morning match; Solonius will also get a man in the next match. Barca will take the primus and men from Neapolis will take the remaining match. A rather odd mishmash but one that looks promising. And it is; Solonius takes one match but loses his man against Crixus. The men from Neapolis fight to a standstill before she gives them mercy and Barca runs his man through with his spear.

Such a showing must please the Gods, if the crowd is any indication.

 

 

Sulla leaves her a widow, but as her star falls Vopiscus’ rises. From Tesserarius to Optio to the employ of the Governor of Gallia Cisalpina. It’s the opening he wanted and while he is three years her junior, he had been worried about his entry into the Cursus Honorum.

How foolish it all seemed now.

 

 

Capua is good to her and she grows fonder in turn. Titus grows like a weed, soon to be eight while Senedj flourishes under his nurse’s care. She has Indus teaching Titus the beginnings of sword work while Gaius starts his military and history education. Rather than being impatient with her, he seems to have warmed to her company. Still, with such an extended absence from Rome and a guest in her brother-in-law’s house, Numeria decides it’s best if she looks at other options.

Neapolis turns into that for her, a hard days ride from Capua and in favored climes. Even better, it’s a port city, good for fathers’ merchant ties. And Sekhemkhet, though it pains her to think his name. Soon she has a handsome villa in the city to call her own and makes plans to recall her servants. Over the years her household has grown, surviving two marriages, but then many had gone north, as she had sent many others.

 

 

Along the east coast of Britannia her husband found two tribes, the Iceni and the Trinovantes in the marshlands. During his stay he tried his best to maintain good relations for Rome.

While it was not his to claim as private property, he had laid down instructions for a villa and the beginnings of a town. The tribes people had made it clear that the fort must wait, both as a show of good faith and that it interfered with a religious festival at the time. In any case, the ground was too unstable for the engineers to work with the available supplies, so they would return the next year.

However, to keep some Roman presence, a few of the veterans stayed behind. Those same veterans who held their beliefs, spoken of in only the darkest nights, the quietest corners.

 

 

Titus Batiatus compliments her handsomely on her new home and inquires of her future plans.

“I’ve grown to enjoy Capua, but Rome is home to me. I plan to stay for the opening games of the new arena then return to my father. Afterwards I’ll end my period of mourning and seek a new husband.”

“Take care Lady Fabia,” Titus sighs gravely. “Tullius was murdered in his own home by robbers. One can only imagine how bold they will be on the road.”

“I had heard about that.” Gaius had taken care of it, taking coin and valuables to make it look like a robbery. “However, I do keep guards. Auctus included.”

“How is he faring?” Titus asks, eyes full of concern.

“No longer bedridden, though his temper is not unlike that of a baited lion,” she answers. A few house slaves no longer went in alone or in pairs but in small groups. “About Tullius, have you heard anything more?” She had written to Sekhemkhet about possible business ventures and she would hate to have sent him to a dry well.

“There’s been talk of his kinsman Gnaeus Ulpius coming to investigate,” Titus answers.

She’s heard of him, a young Decurio in Sicilia. The man was known for his excess, overindulging in wine and dice. Not a man for Numeria to fear, and if he brought cronies along then they would be dealt with. Gaius would have been careful to let no one see his face and the slaves had been sold off to far flung cities, so as far as she was concerned she just had to give an offering to the Gods to cleanse herself and her household.

Numeria thanks Titus for his information and moves talk to the opening games.

 

Poor news reaches her ears when she returns to the Batiatus’s villa. Varus and Cossutius have ran their mouths and now Petronius wants an invitation.

Batiatus seeks council but she resists. “This is your home and it is your choice. Know that I support you no matter if you agree or not.”

It is when Batiatus decides to go through with it that she offers a possible solution to their largest obstacle. “Let us see your father in the morn for business.”

 

Titus Batiatus is out on his balcony, studying his men as though he were a Centurion inspecting his troops. A coughing fit has Lucretia calling for wine and the younger Batiatus expressing concern. The elder denies needing better climes for his health but the younger counters with a shorter trip. When the elder again denies it the younger rephrases it as a business trip. Pretty words about purchasing a champion favored by them both have Titus teetering before Numeria plays her own hand.

“I have need of a new slave as well. My younger son is growing older and I had mind towards purchasing a tutor. An educated Greek woman, if at all possible.”

“At Neapolis?” Quintus asks in disbelief, standing tall under his father’s glare.

“One of the ships coming into port does business with my kinsman Sekhemkhet. He promises a shipment of Greek slaves the day after tomorrow,” she replies. “You would have my permission to use my villa for your stay rather than some filthy inn.”

“You are too generous,” Titus starts, breaking into another coughing fir. “Truly, you offer too much.”

“I offer what I offer and trust in the hands of honorable men,” she replies, seeing Batiatus swell a touch with pride.

The elder Batiatus relents at that and preparations are begun. Lucretia voices her fears of the men overreaching themselves; Solonius is offered up by Batiatus but she proposes Gaius stand in his stead.

“I fear such high born men will not bend ear to a lanista,” she admits.

The reminder of his lesser status clearly rankles the man, pushing him into agreeing. Perhaps it is harsh but she agrees with Lucretia and will not be left defenseless.

Oddly enough, Gaius has no problem supervising a potentially violent orgy. However, the man is a former soldier so perhaps it makes sense; the desire for action never truly leaves them. Matters are soon pressed too far by Varus and his fellow men, those who so desperately want to sample what Batiatus has to offer. One of the old merchants gets too…forward with Melitta, drawing the ire of Gannicus and Oenomaus. Numeria is forced to intercede before blood is drawn, grabbing the man’s wrist tightly, gripping tightly enough to feel his bones creak. Woman or not she commands respect and obedience. In this, the man obeys as easily as a house slave, a muttered ‘apologies’ cast to the body slave before retreating.

“Gannicus!” She calls, the gladiator coming forward swiftly. “See Melitta and Naevia to the pantry safely. The three of you, stay there until this mess is over with.” She pauses, then continues. “If I send anyone else down there, believe it was my orders and protect them as well.”

“Domina,” he nods, relief sparking in his eyes.

As they leave, she looks around at the spectacle. At the far wall she can see the slave that caught her interest earlier. The Syrian bears striking resemblance to her Naphtali; a sparse bit shorter, sporting a ridiculous beard, absent Naphtali’s green flecked eyes and a couple shades darker from the sun, but otherwise they could easily pass as brothers if not twins. A now familiar tug of lust and misplaced affection fills her at the sight of him, but there are other things that must be tended to before her desire.

Time to begin, she thinks, striding over to the unclaimed slaves. “Can your companion understand me?” Numeria asks not-Naphtali, wanting to figure out if she needs to find someone else.

“No, Domina, I am here to change the words,” not-Naphtali answers after a glance at Oenomaus.

She nods, having expected as much. “I have need of you both.”

“Us…both?” Not-Naphtali asks in surprise while his companion leers. Beside them, the other gladiators twitch.

“Not your cocks,” she snaps, switching to rough Aramaic. Naphtali had taught her and Gaia in exchange for Greek lessons, but she had always preferred the written word. “Have plans for man. Need help getting rid of body.”

The companions leer changes, less sexual and more bloodthirsty; not-Naphtali looks calculating but nods in assent.

Cossutius is easy to find, drinking wine and smirking while he watches Barca plow one of the guests.

“Such a sight, is he not?” She asks, teeth grazing the man’s ear, bending slightly so she can lay a hand on his shoulder.

“A marvel,” Cossutius smirks, eyes wide and pupils blown from wine and opium. Would he even be able to walk?

“Would you care to join me somewhere more…private?” She breathes the word against his skin, watching goosebumps appear like pale freckles.

Cossutius shivers, moving to stand with a drunken wobble. At his natural height he’s only a hairsbreadth taller than her; this discovery seems to surprise him, but does nothing to distract from his own growing desire. Soft hands pull her in for a sloppy kiss, too many teeth to be comfortable but an edge of skill she had not expected from such an inebriated person.

She guides them to a quiet room some ways away from the party, the two Syrians on their heels. They situate themselves on either side of the door, the tall brute looking a step from pulling his cock out and not-Naphtali at least taking it seriously, standing straight backed at his post. Cossutius looks the slightest bit annoyed by their companions, which is the last thing she wants right now.

“Ignore them,” she purrs, fingers gripping his short hair tightly. “I find myself ravenous…” She pulls him in for a kiss, tasting wine and a sharp tang of something on his tongue.

“A common affliction of widows.” Cossutius bends, mouthing her breast over the cloth. His hand drifts lower, slipping past the folds of her gown; she can feel clumsy teeth across the cloth when he frowns, finding her dry. The man makes an inquisitive noise before suckling harder, trying to draw a reaction.

“I fear I have neglected myself in mourning,” she murmurs, spreading her legs farther apart and trailing her fingers over his back in lazy loops. “It will take more than a few kisses to warm me.”

Without further instruction the ice-eyed man kneels, a touch too fast and his knees crack on the stone floor. Before she can see if he is alright he lifts her gown brazenly, brackets it around her hips and licks a wide strip over her landica, startling a moan out of her. Cossutius pauses briefly to smirk up at her, locking eyes as he drags his teeth over it and tugs gently. The implied threat, even the man himself, has her shivering in revulsion. However, the man must mistake it for arousal at the bold move and continues on, allowing himself to be guided by her hand in his hair and the jerk of her hips. Distantly it occurs to her that he’s sucking her like she has a cock which is…surprisingly arousing, new and unexplored.

She glances up from the serpent between her legs to glance at not-Naphtali. Gods, he looks so like him and the haze over his eyes nearly has her cresting. But she holds on, needing her muscles working for what comes next. Numeria pulls the man closer, feels his ears between her thighs and waits for him to come up for air.

Cossutius’s neck snaps, a loud sound in the quiet of the room, the body falling to the floor with a thump.

“Fuck almighty,” she grimaces, feeling the cool air hit slick skin. No time to clean up, have to move him before they get caught. “Help me with this!” She barks in Aramaic, feeling disgruntled despite herself. Both the pair react quickly, thought the tall brute seems to be looking at her with something akin to wariness now.

Not-Naphtali helps her roll him up in a sheet, hefting him upon their shoulders like a rug while the tall one takes point as a guard. All around them guests are slumped over drunk or otherwise occupied, paying no mind to the odd trio. Out of the villa and into the ludus, it is only a short trip to the cliff. Before they toss him off the edge, she yanks a handful of hair from his skull.

The slam and splatter of the body is mesmerizing, a free fall halted by two hard landings that open chest and tear leg from body. Sliding down sharp rocks, the mangled body is strewn apart for many feet like a grotesque red dye at the base of Tifata.

Numeria turns to face the two slaves. “Speak of this to no one. Your Dominus will be informed of the event but not your identities. Reward will be given later.”

Not-Naphtali repeats the words back in Aramaic, face carefully blank. He bows once the message is passed and his companion follows suit.

Inside the party rages on, a mass of limbs and ugly half masks. Eyes search for the black haired girl and finds her unencumbered by the pool. Numeria considers acting flirtatious to keep up with appearances but decides an order would attract less attention. She snaps her fingers in the girl’s direction and motions for her to follow. With an absolutely miserable look on her face the girl follows, looking for all the world like she’s going to the executioner.

It reinforces Numeria’s belief that she made the right decision but it would serve ill purpose to make the girl cry in front of so many guests.

Farther in the villa but not yet to the pantry, she turns to face the girl. “You are Diona, the woman Cossutius raped?”

“Domina?” A spark of life, born of confusion, crosses the girls face.

She holds out her hand, shows the black hair trapped in her fist. “He will not harm you again. There was a most…unfortunate accident.”

The words and sight do the trick; the girl breaks down crying, wracking sobs that leave her kneeling on the floor. With a little effort she carries the girl to the pantry. Inside Naevia, Melitta and Gannicus remain. At the sound of Diona’s cries Naevia comes to investigate, flinching back when she sees her friend cradled like a child.

“Is she…?” Melitta begins, practicality fracturing under sympathy.

“She has had a shock, but time will heal her,” Numeria answers, kneeling to deposit the girl on the ground. Diona’s nails bite into her arms, struggling to remain in what she likely thinks is safety.

“Shh, shh, child,” she croons, like it is one of Titus’s nightmares. “Melitta will look after you. Gannicus,” she directs towards the Celt, “you remember your order?”

“Domina,” he nods.

“The party will continue for at least another hour. If you can, try and find some water and cloth. I fear one of the men injured her.”

Melitta immediately heads down a hallway, Naevia close behind. With a last nod to Gannicus she leaves as well, trusting him to keep guard.

Not soon enough the party starts to break up; drunk and satisfied the men spill out of the villa like a swarm of fed locusts. Gaia leaves on the arm of Petronius, smile wide as they speak. Gaius, she notes in amusement, leaves with a young man of perhaps twenty-one, with a confidence and charisma she rarely sees.

Hmm. Perhaps that is why he never took a wife.

A deep sigh of relief breaks the silence of the room, a brief reaction before the Domina of the house reasserts her will. Orders are given to bathe the slaves and put the house back in order. With dawn on the horizon, all any of them want to do is rest but there is still work to do to keep notice of this from Titus.

But like other ill fortunes, this too comes paired. A man walks into the villa accompanied by two slaves, blond haired and wiry, looking to be in his late twenties or early thirties.

“So this,” the man drawls, “is the house of the _honorable_ Titus Batiatus.” He looks around, as though inspecting for purchase, then spits at Lucretia’s feet. “Are you the lena? Or the Fabia cunt?”

“Who are you to come into my home and offer such insult?” Lucretia demands. Around her, a few of the slaves gather closer.

“I am the one who will see you ruined!” The man screams. “For the murder of my cousin.”

It clicks into place and the anger inside Numeria only grows. “Ulpius. You must be very drunk or very stupid to insult my client so.” She stalks over, watches the man square his shoulders. Taking an exaggerated sniff, she lets a sneer curl her lip. “Must be stupidity, for I smell no wine or other spirits.”

“Fucking cunt,” he spits, face aflame in embarrassment. “Do you have no shame or has that been bred out of your line like the Claudii!?”

“There is no shame in business and coin, your cousin understood that all too well. Leave this place and see mouth closed and eyes shut.”

“And if I do not?” Ulpius tries to loom over her, but they are of similar height; he must lean forward to bare teeth instead. “What will Lady Fabia do?”

“See them closed myself,” she replies sweetly, running her thumb over the man’s lips. “The Flower Pot is always in need of new catamites.”

He flinches back, but she catches him on the cheek. Blood drips down from his face into the floor, but she is far from satisfied.

Ulpius snaps his fingers and a slave steps forth bearing wine. “My gift to the _master_ of the house. One must have sympathy when the son is weak and shames the father.”

Lucretia snaps at that, grabbing ahold of a nearby tray and flinging it at his head. “Out!” She roars as he coughs up blood, spitting teeth onto the floor. Behind them, Oenomaus steps forward with sword drawn. “You go too far!”

Ulpius smirks, face mangled. He’s gotten exactly what he wanted.

 

 

Nero was less concerned about his future, his status as secretary of a general in Transalpine Gaul leaving him in good position. He had even promised that when he was made Quaestor she would join him to serve a second term. To the grieving widow, any hope was ravenously desired. Allies on both sides of the mountains would prove advantageous in any case, the swiftness and ease she can move slaves across the lands. From her contacts with the two tribes, she learned the order to leave the natives alone had held. Few slavers were reckless enough to break the order in place and the ones who do are quickly dispatched. The Iceni’s numbers in particular swell, some 400 slaves already sent their way.

It's a good start.

 

 

When Titus and Quintus return, the news of Gaia’s newest catch reaches their ears. Titus, for once, is forced to compliment Lucretia.

“Your friendship with the woman will bring her husband’s patronage,” he says, as though he finds the thought of coin from the woman distasteful. Perhaps he does.

Quintus, who usually would be pleased for his wife, looks sour. Lucretia sees this oddity as well and removes herself from the room, knowing her husband will follow. That leaves Titus to present the slaves. First it is the newest gladiator of the house, a criminal sold into slavery. A short but broad man, his cold black eyes reminded her forcibly of Cossutius. Ummidius he was called, with a nasty preference for killing prostitutes. Under Roman law he couldn’t be tried for murder, merely damage to property. With such a high debt amassed and no signs of stopping, one brothel took him as a slave to pay his debts.

“A scoundrel to be sure,” Titus says in distaste, “but the match of any man from Nola.”

“Let him honor the sands with gifts of blood, his own if needed,” she replies, glaring at the man when he dares to meet her eyes. “And my tutor?”

Titus waves for the brute to be taken away, then brings in her new slave. “She is called Isadora, Lady Fabia. A woman of high birth and education.”

“Not high enough, it seems.”

“Her husband ran afoul of a legatus,” Titus explains. “A man by the name Gaius Claudius Glaber. Her husband was executed.”

“I am not surprised. The man is a vicious glory hound.” She had known of him when he was a tribune in Hispania Citerior. For a time now she had suspected his legatus had ordered the murder of her husband and sons. Glaber would have no qualms about the murder of innocents if it bought him favor. “Her husband may very well have been innocent.”

The woman flinches at that, stifling a cry. Too late, Numeria thinks to guard her tongue.

Isadora is a pretty woman, petite with clear skin darker than Numeria’s own but their hair is the same glossy black. Soft, tired brown eyes that once might have been kind and a small nose rest above thin pink lips. Her hair falls nearly to the small of her back. Thin chest and hips gave an almost sapling appearance, though she is in her mid-twenties.

“Can you read and write in Greek?” She asks the woman in her own tongue.

“Yes, Domina,” the woman replies in Latin. “I can also read and write in Latin, though I speak it poorly.”

“You sound fluent to me,” Numeria replies, lips quirked in amusement. “I have no need of an orator. Tell me, what else do you know?”

“Astronomy,” Isadora replies, nostalgia slowing her words. “Geometry. Some medical knowledge, from my husband.”

“The personal physician of the Governor of Hispania Citerior,” Titus offers.

“How much did she cost?” Numeria asked, impressed.

“350 denarii,” Titus answers, handing over a now light purse with the leftover money. “She would have been more expensive, I suspect, if she had not bit off her old masters ear.”

“What caused such reaction?” She asks, an idea already formed.

“He struck the Domina’s brother,” she replies. “Her favorite. I only wanted to help.” She sounds close to tears, trembling in her irons.

“The brother is a praetor, Lady Fabia. He is likely the one who saved the woman’s life.”

“Intelligence, bravery, loyalty. The Gods have blessed me. Diona!” She calls to the dark haired slave. “See Isadora unchained and bathed. Clothes are laid out in my room. If nothing fits, tell me and I will find something more suitable.”

When the slaves leave she turns to Titus. “Though I hate to bring ill news to your door, it cannot be avoided. Tonight, bring your son and daughter in law to my kinsman’s villa. There is much to be discussed.”

 

Less than an hour later passes before Diona comes to her door with Isadora, wearing her Domina’s anger on her face.

“Domina requests your presence, Lady Fabia,” the dark haired girl says stiffly.

“I will arrive shortly,” Numeria has half a mind to refuse but knows such action would only result in more anger taken out on the houseslaves.

She finds Lucretia crying in the bath, Gaia on the tile. For once, the eerie smile is absent. With a hoarse sob, it all comes spilling out. Titus criticizes her: her character, her lack of dowry, her lack of _status_ , _her lack of child._ He is encouraging his son to divorce her and find a new bride, one who will provide an heir. In confusion and then rising anger, she answers Numeria’s questions: when did they marry, how old were they, has she ever had a live birth, a stillbirth, miscarriages, does she still have her menses, how often do they have sex, hold old is she now, is she on birth control, has she ever suffered any injuries?

“What is the _point_ of all these questions?” Gaia cries in anger, shoving at her to get her away from Lucretia.

“To determine if Quintus is infertile,” Lucretia says bitterly, cosmetics smeared around her eyes. “Is that not true?”

“He is the only child,” she begins hesitantly. “Titus himself was an only child. _His_ father only had a sister, separated by many years.” An old bit of history, learned when Batiatus was extolling the history of the ludus. “Men’s seed grows weaker with age. Your husband is only in his early fifties…”

“But it could very well be too late,” Gaia finishes, paling as the implications settle in.

Lucretia begins sobbing anew, face twisted in fear and disappointment. “I cannot leave him! How am I to live without him?”

Numeria has no answers.

 

Dinner is just as much of a struggle as she expected. Conversation is stilted, the ease of words that usually pass between Quintus and Lucretia absent. Gaia’s attempts to turn conversation to her coming marriage and therefore business with Petronius only goes so far.

“After the opening games?” Numeria asks, trying to push the conversation forward.

“We will travel to Rome,” Gaia confirms, triumphant smile on her face.

“I’ll have to find you a gift.”

“I have far too many baubles from my previous marriage, Lady Fabia.” Briefly her eyes land on Lucretia’s bracelet, a costly thing in the shape of hands nearing to clasp. “Though I would not be averse to your proxy at the ceremony.”

Titus harrumphs at that, cutting into his meat with more force than truly necessary.

“Perhaps. With any luck my own will be soon.”

“How does the search go?” Quintus asks, eyes tight around the edges.

“Father favors Varus, though a small number of Senators are in question. After elections are concluded I will receive final say.”

“So soon?” Lucretia asks. “Your mourning period will not be longer?”

“My father knows who I favor depending on the outcome of the elections. Choosing between three men is not difficult but the negotiation of a dowry can be. In any case, this is far more political than personal.”

The meal does not get better and eventually she excuses herself, asking to speak with Titus after he’s had his wine. She finds him again on the balcony; in the moonlight he wears every one of his years, lines written deep into his skin and his hair a gleaming silver.

He does not strike her as a man with a loose tongue, but wine and age are foes of a strong mind. “He wanted to be a soldier you know. To travel to the farthest corners of the Empire and find glory in battle. Sometimes I wonder if I should have let him.”

“Such are the wonderings of any parent. Yet your son is ambitious and clever.”

“Better to be wise and steadfast,” Titus says, despair darting across his eyes for a moment. “To see ancestral holdings threatening to crumble, it strikes at a mans heart Lady Fabia.”

“I can imagine.” Sicilia was her Clans territory from the time of her forefathers; Corsica and Sardinia, while not yet truly ancestral yet, felt like **hers** , separate from her father’s love of the nearby island. “But hope is not lost.”

“So many years absent heir?” Titus dares to scoff, then hastily corrects himself. “Surely there is no hope with current wife?”

“It takes two to make a child,” she says mildly. “Perhaps it is not the wife who is infertile.”

“Quintus? He shares Lucretia’s bed often, with undignified pleasure.”

“There are things that can weaken a man’s seed, or leave it dead and useless. Overexertion, overindulgence of wine, childhood illnesses. Just because he is not impotent does not mean he is not infertile.”

“So you have spoken with the woman.” There is nothing in his voice to suggest he is angry at his daughter-in-law, but the man was like still water in that regard.

“It is a woman’s issue,” she replies. “Your son loves his wife with a passion rarely seen, he would not deny her a child she so desperately desires, nor his line an heir on purpose.”

“What option does that leave me?” Titus asks in despair, arms raised high towards the starry sky.

“Adoption. The Empire is often at war. Surely you have orphan cousins, or those with too many mouths to feed.”

“Gaius, the son of my aunt, had only one child. Her daughter is betrothed and cannot be parted from closer kin.” Even as he says the words, Numeria can see the thought take root in his mind.

“And what of others? Who do you think is worthy to hold the ludus?”

“Oenomaus. He is true-hearted, knows the make of a man as any good lanista should. Honorable…”

The son of my heart remains unsaid.

“He is an honorable man and Melitta is a woman of worth. Free them and hope they provide a child.” It would be the best outcome for the couple, even if it left Batiatus and Lucretia in the cold.

“Do you truly think they would stay?” Titus asks, voice dangerously close to a scoff again.

“If you make it a term of their freedom.”

“That is not freedom.”

“But it is pragmatic. Sometimes a man must put aside loftier morals if he is to keep fortune in his favor.”

“Such thoughts lead men to damnation with a smile.”

We are all damned old man; time has seen to that. No one is innocent while the Empire goes unchecked and Rome eats itself alive.

“Needs must be met. The best we can do is cause the least harm we can along the way.”

Titus breaks at that, the defeated slump of his shoulders again driving home the mans age. “I will speak to my son. Our house must have an heir. He will understand.”

“There is more you need to know,” she says after giving the man a moment of peace. “Cossutius is dead, dying under your roof, so to speak.”

“The Curio? How?”

“I spoke with him regarding marriage with Varus. Lucretia acted as chaperone for a time but was called away to a different matter. While he was here he drank too much, as he was known to do, and while I was showing him around he fell off the cliff.”

“And why were you by the cliff? Why was I not informed earlier?” Titus demands.

“Because he was inquiring about the mountain itself and about Gannicus.” The other man hisses Gannicus under his breath as though it were a curse but she ignores it. “I had planned on sending for Lucretia for an exhibition match when he suddenly slipped off the edge. She and I had already performed the rites and sent notice to the paterfamilias. And after that a complication arose in one of my affairs. Concern was placed elsewhere.”

“And what could steal away attention from the death of a Curio?”

“A threat on the life of my sons.”

 

Titus’s rage is useless, a storm cloud that bears no rain. Still, Numeria is no fool and watches the sky for lightning. Meanwhile, a debt goes unpaid and rumors spread like illness in Capua. Detesting both and hoping one may in turn help cull the other, she makes a visit to the Syrians. The tall one, who she now knows is Dagan, spars with Barca while Ashur does push-ups. Guards retrieve them at her order; Barca must think they will be punished for something because he laughs meanly as they are led into the villa.

“Wait outside,” she instructs the guards. With barely a twitch they follow her orders, closing the door with a soft thud. “Gratitude for your patience, other concerns took precedence.”

“So we heard. The whores speak of men shouting shit about this godforsaken House,” Dagan seers in Aramaic. “Will we kill the drunk fucks as well?”

“In time.” No use in hiding it; they know better than to spread word and will be motivated by the thought of more coin. “We but wait for more opportune time. But now is not the time to discuss the matter.” Numeria hands Dagon a small purse, some twenty odd sesterce in the pretty red cloth. “You can keep the purse as well.”

He bows his head, then shoots her a sly look, teeth bared. “I will use this on cunt. Maybe one of them knows where talk is from.”

“Find the source and receive more coin,” she replies, mildly amused at the greed of the man. “Wait outside.”

With another short bow he leaves, cursing at the guards as a greeting. That just leaves her and not-Naphtali. Her jewelry box is on the table, ornate wood and animal bone making it eye-catching. When she opens it, the inner lid has a mirror, polished to a shine. From inside she pulls out a necklace, with a thin chain of gold with an eagle pendant. Its eyes are aflame with two small diamonds. All together it is worth about four aurei, or 100 denarii. She knows it and by the hesitation in his grasp of the chain, he knows it too.

“Your generosity is unmatched,” he says slowly, running his thumb over the eagle, “but I cannot accept.”

“And why not?” She asks, slowly walking over to him, leaning on her desk. “Is it not enough?”

Ashur shakes his head. “My Dominus could take such gift from me. What I have he allows me to keep. If he should come to desire it…”

Her shoulders slump a bit in disappointment; she would have liked to see a sign of her affection on him. “Very well.” She takes a plain wooden box and motions for him to place the necklace inside. “I will hold it for you.”

Reluctantly he hands over the necklace. “Gratitude.”

“Apologies for my lack of thought. It had not occurred to me.” She pauses, fingers drumming on the box for a moment. “I have another request; one you are free to refuse.”

“Domina?”

“Will you share my bed? If you require payment for the service I will provide it,” she promises, feeling eager. It is wrong, she knows, to want a man who looks so like her love, but he is out of reach.

This man is within it.

Irritation flashes across his eyes for a moment but he smiles, showing off white teeth. “What more could a man want than the attentions of such a beautiful woman? It would be a pleasure and an honor, Lady Fabia.”

“Charmer,” she smirks, feeling her shoulders loosen. She feels bold enough to step forward and trail her fingers down his arm, watching the muscles jump under her touch. “Not tonight but within the week. I will send for you.”

“I await with anticipation,” he promises, deepening his voice. She stifles a giggle and sends him out. He bows again before joining his countryman, a strut in his step.

Time cannot pass quickly enough.

 

 

Her second marriage is unconventional, to say the least. Nefekara of Thebes had traveled to Venafrum from Egypt; a merchant by trade, he fought to get Roman citizenship to buy a large olive orchard for his business. When news of her husband’s venture to the far north spread he volunteered, attempting to further his own interests by courting her husband’s favor, or at least one of the lesser officers.

In Titus’s river of letters he spoke highly of the man, taking him on as his personal bookkeeper. It was second choice of course; father was serving a second term as Governor, again in Sicilia and Naphtali was serving under him. But he was good at what he did. Funny as well, charming, handsome…For a time she had been worried that she had competition, but that had not been the case. Titus had no desire to make the man his lover.

No, he wanted his friendship and in some ways his image. Their plans were weak then, vague wisps of midnight dreams. Nefekara was what they **could** have, **should** strive for, that of Rome’s influence spreading to all corners of the earth, befitting all, bringing worthy men forth.

Upon their return he made sure the man received the Latin Rights and was pushing for more. He had even told her that he wanted Nefekara as his Quaestor, that he was wasted on civilian life.

His opinion on Sekhemkhet, Nefekara’s kinsman and business partner, was less clear but one of respect none the less.

 

 

Dark clouds rumble overhead. Titus sees Cossutius’s death as partially Lucretia’s fault; after all, she is the Domina of the ludus and could have arranged for exhibition herself. In turn, he wants to take stock of the gladiators, especially those purchased by his son. The opening games are fast approaching and many have been bought by Petronius, for the price of the orgy. Even the unmarked Syrians are to go, something that upset the Doctore. Batiatus, for once being favored by the gods, stills his fathers hand and instead organizes a kind of tournament designed to show off how well he has trained the men in his fathers absence.

Numeria presses advantage; she offers to buy men for next year. Phrasing it as good will to the other Aedile’s if her brother in law loses the election and a celebration if he wins, she hopes to gain back some good will from the man. She even makes sure to buy the weak ones for the morning matches, those that Titus has found inadequate so far during the tournament. If they die, it will no great loss to him. He must know what she is doing but he allows it, mollified. Thirteen men are selected and while it is perhaps not wholly honorable, the House of Batiatus stands much richer than in the morning.

“I suppose it is a better fate to die in the arena than the mines,” he mentions offhandedly, sunset painting the balcony orange.

“The mines are Tartarus given form,” she replies. Once, her husband had sent a group of men charged with mutiny to a mine in Hispania. The memory of it still chilled her bones. “It is a fate deserved by the worst of criminals, not merely weak men.”

They sit in silence for a time before Titus speaks again. “My son has been informed of my decision. He has two days to decide his fate. Either he will divorce Lucretia or he will be on the streets with her.”

“And your plans for an heir?”

“I will adopt Oenomaus as my son. If the Gods favor my House, they will bear a son and my kin another daughter.”

And a wedding to bind it all together. Numeria does not bother protesting on Lucretia’s behalf, knowing it would fall on politely deaf ears at best. “The House of Batiatus has my continued patronage, as well as my brother-in-law’s,” she says. “I meant what I said, Oenomaus is honorable. You have chosen a strong heir.”

“If only blood had been stronger,” Titus’s sorrow laced voice comes, before breaking into a coughing fit.

 

 

Nefekara becomes part of their lives, a trusted friend as well as a business partner. Some of the Greeks in their service look down on him for being native Egyptian, but soon learn to not show such objections in their presence. Painstakingly, she learns his language, sessions with him and without. If she had been paying more attention, she might have realized what she felt earlier, but she shied from it. Loving two men at once was hard enough, three was sure to end in heartbreak.

He waits with her during the war, helps protect their land as much as he’s able from her political rivals. Her husband fights with Sulla and his ilk, though she and her husband favor the populares. But this is about survival now and they must either bend or break.

For once she is the teacher, showing him how to handle a sword as Titus taught her all those years ago. In turn he tries to teach her the bow. Neither are successful but they grow closer, heat growing where before there was a friendly warmth. Truthfully she wished for more, affection quickly turning to love. But she restrains herself; Titus was her husband and above that the man she loved. Numeria would not break that bond, would rather love quietly in secret than betray the trust placed in her.

But her dreams shatter and nightmares come to life. Titus Livius Drusus is dead, her husband and protector no longer. He had planned to follow his kinsman, to try and attain citizenship for the Italic people. Now that dream was dust. Her own plans, smaller in scale but no less important, would have to come first before she saw his dream realized.

 

 

Numeria calls for Ashur in the morning. Lucretia knows of her desire, though not the whole truth of it and makes sure the man is bathed and scented. The lack of resistance has Numeria questioning her motives, if it is to buy her loyalty against Titus or to make sure her husband will have work should things go badly. Whatever the case, she is told that she has three hours before he is needed for the tournament. Less than she’d like, but now is not the time to be greedy. Later she can buy more of his time. Now, she changes into a green, airy gown that compliments her looks. Naphtali always favored her in green, calling her beautiful and predicting she would be a heartbreaker. Oh, if only.

She is distracted by the arrival of the man, led by Naevia and accompanied by two guards. Numeria dismisses them, then circles around the Syrian, taking him in.

“I had not expected to find you this beautiful,” she admits. The man may be here because he could pass for her love, but he is handsome in his own right as well.

“It is a pleasure to be so appealing to your eyes,” he says, a pleasant smile on his face. “You appear a hard woman to please.”

“Not a difficult task, when one listens to instruction.” She walks over, runs her nails down the man’s back, walking the skin freckle. “Though I do have a question.”

“Domina?” He asks, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

Gods that sounds wrong, even from the man’s too deep voice. “When we are here, call me Numeria,” she corrects. Then, “After Cossutius, would you feel comfortable between my thighs?”

“People talk,” he says, choosing his words with care. “I know why you acted in such a way and I pose no threat to you and yours.”

“That is not an answer.” She steps in front of him, leans against the couch and waits.

“I could lay between your thighs all day and feel no fear, only desire,” he promises.

“And if you felt uncomfortable you would tell me?”

“If that is your desire.”

“If you desired something of your own, you would tell me?”

“If that is your desire,” he repeats.

“It is,” she says. Then she steps forward to kiss him.

She expects gentleness from their first kiss, still thinking of the man as Naphtali. Instead it is deep, edges of teeth and the taste of his tongue. Boldly pulling her close, he tangles a hand in her hair and rests the other on her hip. Digging her nails into his shoulders she tries to keep up, pressing them flush. Pulling away from his mouth, she kisses along his jaw, finding his pulse point and licking over it. His hands settle on her ass, squeezing firmly.

“Can I mark you?” She breathes against his neck, pushing him until his back’s against the wall. She cups him through his subligaria, annoyed they are both still clothed.

“Yes,” Ashur hisses, head falling back to thump on the wall as she grips him through the cloth. Permission granted, she sucks kisses onto his neck, rubbing the head of his cock with her thumb.

“So fucking pretty.” He sounds like what she always imagined, deep groans and bitten off moans a counterpoint to her own sighs and growls. Impatient she pulls off his subligaria and returns to his mouth. She rolls her own hips, grinding against his thigh.

Maybe he takes it as his own permission, because he finally makes another move. Nimble fingers remove her gown, leaving her bare. Dark eyes drink her in, obvious desire rather than obligation. It is not the softness of Naphtali’s eyes or the quiet warmth they share, but this is nice too. His hardness presses into her center, her only a bit shorter than him, but he slips his hand between her legs, offering her some relief.

Surging forward she captures his lips in a kiss again and takes him in hand, shivering at the curse he lets out and how his fingers shake inside of her. “Tired of your own hand? Want something better?” She wants, so very badly, but she enjoys this too.

Ashur presses a third finger into her, smirking at her hiss as she arches her back. “I have it now,” he replies, thrusting into her grip.

Her teeth are back on him, marking his collarbone. Numeria matches him with her own strokes, on and on until she shakes apart around his fingers.

“Fuck,” she breathes, biting back a hiss at the burn of his fingers pulling out of her. “Touch yourself,” she orders, needing a moment to recover. Wanting to see her own slick on his cock.

Sweat slick and panting, he does as she says. Touches himself how he must like to be touched, when he has the leisure and privacy. Cock slick and shiny from herself, he looks like something out of her dreams. He breaks with a desperate groan, trembling under her. “Am I not here to fuck you?”

“You can spill on your hand, then we may go to bed,” she says, striving for indifference but it’s impossible with her own voice so raw. “It is not as though we can here.”

“You underestimate me Numeria.” Suddenly Ashur’s hands are back on her ass, lifting her as though she is no heavier than a bag of sand. She wraps her legs around him to steady herself and finds her back pressed to the wall. “Unless this position displeases you,” he smirks, leaning down to take a nipple in his mouth.

It startles a giggle out of her, feeling delightfully naughty. “Should have fucked you weeks ago,” she moans, pressing his head closer. She tries to touch herself but it makes her feel unstable. Instead she grips his arms and grinds against him as much as she can.

When he finally slips inside of her, it is with a long, smooth stroke that leaves her shaking. She thrusts against him, using as much leverage as she can to chase her own pleasure. The slap of skin fills the room and her moans grow louder the longer she’s kept on edge.

Numeria has always dreamed of doing this with Naphtali. Perhaps in her domus in Rome or her villa in Britannia. She would be working on reports or he on his figures. They would look at each other and in the soft sound of rain and glow of candle light the dam would burst, years of tension spilling over. On his desk or against the wall, his powerful thighs between her own. Finally saying what had gone unsaid for two decades now, sweet as honey, hot as fire.

“Oh Naphtali,” she moans, caught up in her fantasy.

Ashur’s hips snap harder, mouth seeking hers. Bracketed in, it’s so easy to pull him closer, to pant another’s name. Her relief is sharp, driving him over as well. They lean close, cheek to cheek as they catch their breath. Her legs are numb and aching from being spread so long and from her clenching.

“Can you walk?” She asks, nuzzling his cheek gently.

He carries her to the couch, laying her down with care. Though it is awkward, he does not pull out of her until she is reclined, him kneeling between her spread thighs.

“Again?” He asks in surprise, feeling her clench on his cock as he leaves her.

“You were surprisingly satisfying.” Numeria pulls a sheet over herself, feeling chilled. “Much as I’d like to continue, I need rest.” She takes a pear and a handful of grapes from a nearby tray, holding up a strawberry for him to take.

“You did not expect me to please you?” The man asks, an undercurrent of bruised pride in his voice.

“I did not expect to be so well pleased. It has been years since I had a lover strong enough to hold me up, or the inclination,” she confided with a grin. “Now lay down. Sleep for a bit then eat.”

“It seems a waste of your company.” Ashur lays a kiss between her breasts, trailing down to be belly.

“And yet you are required for Batiatus. Win and return so I may congratulate you,” she smiles, running a hand over his chest, going lower to cup his balls.

“And if I lose?” He gasps, spreading his legs for her. Something she’ll have to examine more later.

“Then I will offer consolation.” There has not been enough time, but he still trembles in her grasp, wet with her own slick and his seed. “But if you win, I will buy you something pretty.”

 

The tournament goes on and with it, Lucretia’s and Batiatus’s attempts to change the elders mind. Failed attempts, all of them, made worse when Ulpius returns. Vicious smile in place, he says just enough for Titus to know something more happened but not exactly what. Another amphora of mulsum is given, again with that shit-eating grin and the man departs.

In the evening while Quintus and Titus are out, Lucretia sends Ashur to her bed. He returns to her with a victory, having blinded some poor fuck with his trident. Chest puffed up in pride you would think he defeated Barca, but still…It is pleasing, to see not-Naphtali happy.

“You’ve had a decent showing,” she greets him, rising from her couch.

“There is much improvement to be done,” he replies, perhaps trying to be modest.

“There is,” she agrees, “but Barca would be champion if not for Gannicus. That was a fight you were never going to win. One out of two chances is not the worst outcome.”

“Barca is that valuable to you?” He brings his hands up to her arms, holds her in an easy grip.

“He is that valuable to Batiatus. However,” she smiles, wrapping her arms around his neck, dislodging his hold, “let is not speak of the man when I am trying to take you to bed.”

“Let us turn to more pleasurable things,” he agrees with a smirk, lifting her. He silences the sound of her giggles with his kisses, groaning at the feel of her nails on his neck.

“Did anyone comment on your neck?” She asks, voice breathy as she kisses him.

“Not a soul.” He lays her on the couch, blanketing her with his body. “No one dares to court your displeasure, save perhaps the Celt and the ancilla. To do so would mean death from Dominus.”

“I am glad to offer you protection.” She kisses along his shoulder, palming his ass with a free hand. “But now I wish to offer pleasure. Turn over.”

He does, legs spread so she may settle between them. Deciding she wants everything offered, she kisses him again, slick and deep. Trails down his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, all the way to his wrist. Follows the trail back and repeats it on his other side, feels herself throb at the sight of him, the taste and the touch. His nipples don’t seem to be very sensitive, though he does hum appreciatively at the attention she pays them.

“How do you feel?” She murmurs, sucking a mark into the soft crease of his thigh, cock thick and hot beside her.

“Like a king,” he groans, hips bucking when her lips brush his balls.

“You will feel like a god soon,” she smirks, wrapping her hand around him and pumping.

When she licks the head of his cock his legs clamp around her even as he thrusts up. “You cannot be serious!?” He gasps, incredulous as he gets up on his elbows to look down at her with wide eyes. “Lady Fabia?”

She pinches him in rebuke but he pays it no mind. “Did I not tell you to call me Numeria? You are overreacting.”

“Whores refuse this!” Still, his thighs loosen around her.

“Whores also get fucked in the ass to avoid getting pregnant.” His cock throbs at her voice, which is something to consider later. “I joined my husband on campaign. When birth control ran low and we could not risk child, we found other ways to please each other.”

This time when she takes him in her mouth he does not protest, a groan tearing out of his throat that has her nails digging into his hips. He’s so pretty, heavy pants and instinctive jerks, so careful to fist the sheets rather than her hair.

Numeria pulls off when he can feel his balls drawing up, the near anxiety in his cries. “So good for me,” she kisses his hipbone, taking him in hand.

Ashur tries to flip them over but she stops him with a sharp smack to the flank. Coming with a groan he squirms in her grip, restless rather than sated. Only then does she let them roll over and let herself be devoured.

 

The next evening the fight for the title champion has come down to Crixus and Gannicus. While the Gaul has improved massively, Gannicus has been champion for a year and in no danger of slowing down yet. Both men are strong, fighting as if their life is on the line. On the balcony above them the elder and younger Batiatus speak, harsh feeling and wistful words passing between them.

Crixus falls and rises again, drawing blood on the Celt. As the sun is setting, Gannicus lowers his guard, allows Crixus to strike him with his shield.

The missio is given.

Crixus is victor.

Titus drinks the wine, a gift from Ulpius. At the end of the final match he takes a farewell drink, drinking deeply. Lucretia discreetly stops her husband from doing the same and merely touches the cup to her own lips, drinking none. For a moment Numeria thinks he’s choking on his wine, but then he’s coughing, coughing, coughing until blood shines on his hands in the sunset.

“Medicus! Melitta!” She shrieks, rising up and pulling the man into her arms.

 

He is burning alive and in her bones she knows it to be Ulpius. Ulpius sent the honeyed wine with barbed works and it is from the same amphora that Titus drank from, growing weaker by the hour. Quintus knows it too, Lucretia and likely Oenomaus informing him both of the incident in his home and the origin of the slander against him. In the night they go for herbs to sooth the elders fever.

Before she leaves with the men she sees Melitta taking the same honeyed wine and stops her with a snarl.

“Apologies,” she says to soothe the other woman. “I will explain later, or Oenomaus will, but leave this wine be. Here,” Numeria selects a half empty amphora of Chian she took over. “Take this.”

“I cannot,” Melitta stutters, taking a step back, but Numeria holds firm.

“I could buy enough of this to fill a lake and set it on fire for my own amusement. Half of this small thing means nothing to me. Leave the mulsum here.”

Melitta obeys, going off to Gods know where and Numeria returns to the men, her own guards available to aid the search.

When they return it is silent as a tomb, the only sound rain and thunder. Titus is dead, many of the household slaves gathered in mourning. Off to the side, nearly forgotten, lay Diona. The same wine that killed the Dominus killed the dark-haired slave girl as well. Naevia cradles the girl in her arms, as heartbroken as if her own husband lay at her feet.

“We will have vengeance,” Lucretia swears, voice think with anger.

“We will wipe the family of Tullius from the face of the fucking earth,” Numeria agrees.


	3. video et taceo	I see and keep silent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW – torture  
> TW – abelist language  
> Lupa – slang for prostitute
> 
> Taranis – man from the Trinovantes, a priest/druid

Ulpius is shameless, coming into the visitation in peacock blue and green with yet another amphora of wine. A few of his cronies come with him, acting more like a pack of hyenas rather than men. He comes up to them, Batiatus and Lucretia by her side, Solonius flanking Gaia and sneers at their little group.

“Did I not warn you, pretty lena? You will regret turning against my family.”

“I regret nothing,” she sneers right back, taking a step forward. “Did **I** not warn **you** I would see your mouth shut? Go home, eel, if you know what is good for you.”

“I would rather gamble with my earnings,” he leers. “Why settle for such small profit?”

“So you may retain any profit at all,” Lucretia answers in a voice like winter. “Do not think we will forget this insult, or others hurled upon this house.”

“So,” Ulpius scoffs, turning eyes to Batiatus, “you hide behind the skirts of these women. What, I wonder, did you offer for their loyalty. Your coin? Your ass?” He smirks, looking Batiatus over as though he were a slave for sale. “A bit old for such a pair of cunts.”

“You dare!” Batiatus’ voice rises dangerously high, but Numeria raises a hand to silence him.

“What, are you jealous because your cock is so lowly regarded? Why else would no woman have you, except whores you must pay? I have always heard gambling and drinking were vices for men who could not please a woman.”

Ulpius flushes an ugly red when the women let out mean little giggles. “Fucking cunt!”

“Is that supposed to insult me, you limp cocked hemorrhoid sucker? Get out of this place before I must embarrass you further.”

The man leaves at that, knowing it would please her to harm him, but not before shoving the wine into Naevia’s arms, who looks as though she is holding a very large slug rather than Chian wine.

 

Later, Naevia seeks her out, hair in an unwashed tangle around her head. Dimly, Numeria remembers the girl is not only mourning her Dominus but her companion.

“You helped her,” she starts, “that night. Why?”

Numeria ignores the girl’s brazenness, smelling the wine on her from feet away. “A woman’s life is hard, a slave woman’s much harder still. When you have opportunity to ease a person’s suffering, it ought to be considered.”

“The Curio, the one…” She can’t bear to say his name. “Dominus said he fell.”

“The God’s exact vengeance in many ways, in this life and the next. Is it not fitting that one so high should fall to the earth?”

Naevia merely inclines her head, likely worried to give voice to honest thought. Well, Numeria has other ways to cheer her. In her things she has a tin cup, cheap but pretty. She had brought it with her from Rome for her own personal use, but it would cause her no harm to give it away. The slave girl protests the gift but Numeria silences her, tells her to sell it if she wishes. Perhaps she could buy herself something nice, like fresh apples or a pin for her hair. At last the girl relents, lower lip trembling before dropping into a deep bow.

“Go. Wash up and calm yourself. If Lucretia calls for you, you were tending to me.” With that, she goes off to find Batiatus.

Numeria arrives as the men are planning, guards in tow, Indus among them. Batiatus greets her with friendliness but Solonius is more reserved. She does not stop to give it thought. With twelve guards she adds needed man power, enough to cause a distraction or launch a decent attack.

And so they go. Solonius is sent to the dice hall the man frequents, spinning a tale of Lady Fabia driven to murder from desire, of loving affection for Tullius scorned. How she wants to confess to cleanse her conscious to her lover’s kin. She wants to speak at the edge of the city, where she and Tullius were supposed to meet.

“You accept such blow to reputation?” Gannicus asks as they wait, his usual exuberance subdued.

“No one will believe it,” she answers, thumbing her blade idly. “Many will think he is merely drunk and fantasizing, others that he is desperate to think his kin died by something others than robbers. Above all, no one will believe Tullius would reject a rich woman of standing.”

“Just some drunkards playing pretend,” Indus nods.

Wait, wait, wait, that’s all there is to do. Until they hear Ulpius and his pack of cronies coming up the streets. “Here pretty girl!” Ulpius calls, drunk and staggering. “Come out lupa!” He and his five men enter the square, secluded and private in the dark.

“Didn’t I tell you,” she calls, watching as Batiatus’ men surround them, her own blocking the streets further up, “that I’d close your mouth?”

The brawl is fierce and while supposedly short, it feels like hours have passed. But at the end the doctore is the only one dead and Barca the only one injured with more than bruises, while Ulpius is the last one alive. Harsh though it is, it gives them an alibi. Batiatus was with his bodyguards when set upon by thieves.

With haste, they spirit the man away to the bones of the new arena. Ulpius screams madly, incoherent in rage and terror.

“We should quiet such racket, should we not?” She gives not-Naphtali a bloodthirsty smile. Without being asked he pulls out a large needle with thick cording. “Gratitude.”

Oenomaus lets out a quiet breath, the first to realize her plans. They all hold him down while she works, sewing until blood flows and mouth is forced shut. “Oh, and you will not be needing these either.” Lifting his robe around his hips she takes him in hand, balls and all, and severs them from his body. Ulpius’s screams reach a new pitch, high and piercing even from behind crude muzzle.

“His kinsman,” Batiatus sneers, “labored for years to elevate Capua with this arena. Let him take Tullius’ place and join the foundations.”

“A better end than deserved,” she agrees. Hauling the man up by the hair, she and Dagan shove him into a far wall, a slave at their feet finishing the work. Block by block the man disappears from sight. By the end, his eyes are dead even though his body yet draws breath.

“At long last you learn your lesson. Never stand against the Fabii.”

 

Varus greets her with familiarity, openly flirtatious while magistrate Sextus joins them in the pulvinus. Solonius comes in a brief moment later, looking swollen with pride. His numbers swelled with Vettius’ men and taking his place in the primus, he is sure to make coin off the day’s matches. Batiatus, like Lucretia, had complained of it and been silenced. One must reward a man placed in danger or he would not venture a second time.

The magistrate opens the games with a rousing speech and then they are in the thick of it. As the games heat up so to do Varus’ attentions. A wealthy widow on the brink of remarriage and a rich bachelor with a place in the Senate, it makes perfect sense. But news has not yet come concerning elections, nor word from her father on his final decision. If Gryllus loses then it must be Senator Albinius. However, a win could mean Varus or Nero’s cousin Sextus, barely more than a child in her eyes.

“Are they not amazing?” She asks, tilting just so towards Varus.

“As good as Rome’s,” he smirks, laying a bold hand on her arm. “You seem taken with them.”

“So long in Capua, one begins to have favorites.”

“Indeed!” Batiatus cuts in. “Gannicus in particular is quite fierce.”

“Though Crixus gains form by the day,” she adds. Batiatus seizes opportunity to go on about his men, as energetic as ever.

“Some favored more than others,” Lucretia smiles, hidden behind her fan.

“Something you understand,” Numeria replies, an undercurrent of danger in her voice.

Lucretia remains smiling, unperturbed knowing Numeria knows about her and the Gaul. “We will keep him for your use, Lady Fabia. All we ask if that you visit Capua whenever Rome can spare you. After all, our benefactress must remain satisfied.”

Ahh, so it is like that. “An offer deeply appreciated and one I am happy to accept. You will tell me if prized stallion yields colt?”

“At first opportunity.”

The primus starts at nightfall and to her shock the gladiators are caught in a ring of fire. It reminds her of a wrestling game she and Nero played as children, with deadly consequence. First blood goes to Solonius but Gannicus and Ashur hit right back for Batiatus and she finds herself cheering right along with the crowd. Caburus is a monster, a titan on the sands, killing a string of Batiatus’ men, cleaving Dagans’ head off in one stroke and tossing it at a man as a distraction before killing him as well.

When there are only four left she thinks all is safe, as much as they can be. Surely between the three of them they can defeat Caburus? But it is not to be. Numeria watches in horror as Crixus turns on Ashur, striking his leg and throwing him into the fire. As if from a distance she hears Solonius make a comment on ill trained animals. “Crixus has always wanted to meet Gannicus in combat. He’ll want to kill Caburus and prove himself champion over the Celt.”

“He is too eager,” Varus comments as Crixus is struck, Gannicus pushing him out of the ring.

After a brutal beating, Gannicus gains upper hand, shoving a broken spear point into Caburus’ mouth and breaking his jaw. Batiatus hoops and hollers while Gannicus roars to the crowd, soaking up the passion of the crowd. The pulvinus is suitably impressed, each sharing a desire to have the man fight in their games.

Then Solonius questions reward, asking freedom for the man. Maneuvering Batiatus into a corner, Solonius says he would have granted his man freedom should he have won. Sextus latches onto that idea, to forever mark the opening games of the arena. Outnumbered, Batiatus must submit.

 

Screams, chants of the man’s name echo in her ears on and on like waves breaking upon beach. It wears on her, though she can emphasize with their joy. When Gaia…she will not think of that here, not with so much else to think on. Still, the man deserves this, so she prepares her own parting gift; two sets of Titus’ old traveling clothes, musty with age and full of memories. While it pains her to part with them she needs to learn to let go; at least this way they serve a purpose. He thanks her, understanding some of the gesture if not the personal magnitude. With everyone here to see the champion off, she also catches a glimpse of Ashur as he limps out of the ludus on his mangled leg, arm in a cast. It hurts to look at him, crippled by sword and fire. Selfishly she notes that his beard and head have been shaved, making him look that much more like her beloved.

It's a miracle they did not take his leg, though she doubts he sees it as such.

 

 

The High Priestess of Thoth is a wizened old crone, skeletal and seemingly held together by spite. Her fellow priestess is just as old and seems more like the animated dead than a living person. On the far wall of the temple grounds another elderly priestess starts a hymn. With a high, sweet voice she sings of the Gods’ achievements and titles, the gifts he has given mankind. Even though the temple is still under construction, funded by her still considerable dowry, Nefekara’s eyes shine with devotion.

Built in Cisalpine Gaul, under the watchful eye of Nero and his legion, the temple is both a sign of her coming marriage to Nefekara and a deal with the Senate. If she funds a temple and a colony out here the Senate will grant Nefekara full citizenship and legalize her marriage. It had been a small fight to get it but Nefekara was held in high esteem by her late husband, something well known by many. What was one marriage, in the end, when she already had a Roman heir?

Like in Brittania, she plans to fill the colony with like-minded people, those who see that Rome is rotting and the illness must be removed.

Over brief years the colony grows, filled with men from her time as Quaestor, descendants of her father’s man and freed slaves. Soon the colony is a thriving town, 15,000 and growing.

All of them, she knows, will march under the Fabii banner.

 

 

Later in the evening she is drinking with Batiatus and Lucretia, discussing terms on gladiators for Neptunalia and Vulcunalia when the guards lead in a familiar figure.

“Naphtali!” She cries in joy, pulling him in for a tight hug, swaying gently in his arms.

She does not see the surprise and dawning comprehension on their faces, nor the jealousy and confusion on Ashur’s, who had just come to speak to the Dominus.

“It has been too long,” she smiles, arms still wrapped around Naphtali. Through tear misted eyes, she takes him in. Dusty from the road, he still has a smile for her, partly covered behind the short beard he has grown during his travels. His hair is slightly longer as well, prettily curled on his head.

“Only by your hand,” he teases, leaning down to grin at her. If it were not for the couple they would be nose to nose. “Up in rainy, cold Britannia. Making peace with the tribes takes time.”

“I remember only too well,” she replies with a wry smile. “Tell me, how is Taranis?”

“Ill-tempered as ever. He sends complaint that you do not visit and to keep your chieftain’s men in line.”

“Serious ones?” She sobers, moving to pull away but Naphtali holds her tight.

“Oh yes, ones of upmost importance. Did you know the druids were in the priest caste and should be treated with respect?” His voice takes on an exaggerated pitch. “Tell Lady Fabia that if the druids pick a child it is an honor! They ought to be proud!”

“Did he also say the rains have come harder since I left?”

“You cannot convince the man their sun God is not enamored with you.”

“I will write him later. Apprenticeship would go a long way to strengthen ties,” she muses.

“Can you imagine the look on Gavrus’ face?” Naphtali snickers.

“Like he’d been hit with a brick.”

It is only when Batiatus discreetly clears his throat that she reluctantly pulls away. Batiatus keeps any hint of scheming from his features but she knows it will not last.

“And who joins us now? Though he appears familiar I do not believe we have made acquaintance.”

“Decimus Fabius Sidonius,” he answers. “Apologies for the interruption. Your father sends word,” he directs towards her. From the folds of his robes he pulls out a slightly mashed scroll.

The first part of the latter is brief and to the point. Gryllus won the election, as did Varus’ kinsman Sextus Quintilius Varus. She is to marry Publius to aid him in the Senate and to secure favor with Sextus. Later parts are more personal, questions on the health of herself and her sons as well as little notes about her mother and sister.

“Fortunes brighten again,” she announces, passing Naphtali the scroll.

“Long awaited. Shall we return to town?”

“No need,” Batiatus calls, waving off Naphtali’s concerns. “The roads are unsafe. Leave at first light if you must but stay the night.”

“We will have to. I am summoned to Rome,” she explains.

Naphtali covers his snort with a cough, clearly finding the idea of her being summoned funny. “Gratitude for welcome hospitality. Apologies again if I interrupted business.”

“Nearly concluded. Go and clean up, I will join you shortly.” She motions to one of the house slaves. “Take him to my quarters.”

With tact she scarcely believes the couple possess no further word passes on the resemblance Naphtali and their gladiator share. Instead they hammer out the last details of the games, men and coin in black ink. Not trusting the calm to last, she excuses herself.

Naphtali is waiting for her in bed, skin still glistening with water. Slipping under the covers, she curls up to him, sighing in contentment as his arms wrap around her. This. She had missed this.

“In the morning, we have much to discuss,” she whispers, voice syrupy with sleep.

“In the morning,” he echoes. Pressing a kiss to the top of her head, he falls asleep. Numeria follows, fighting sleep to listen to his breathing, to feel his skin on hers and know that he is whole and in her arms.

 

Ashur seethes with jealousy in his cell, too weak to properly rage. Tears born of anger and pain well up in his eyes, infuriating him all the more. He had never been under the delusion that he was special but it had felt like an honor to have the attentions of such a high status woman. Being her lover was a way to get ahead in the world, maybe even be freed if he pleased her enough.

And…he had believed that she enjoyed their time together, that **he** pleased her. She had called anothers name, yes, but she had brought him back for a second time and seemed intent on pleasing **him**. Had given him costly gifts and promised more. Seeing her run into another’s arms, a man who very well could have been him if not for green eyes and hair cut in a different style, calling the same name she had when they laid together, it makes a painful amount of sense. Numeria wanted a man that, for reasons unknown to him, she could not have. To sate herself she chose an admirable imitation and treated it with similar appreciation.

She would not have spared him a second glance if not for the resemblance.

It makes no **sense** to be upset, to be **jealous** , but he is. The little seed of hope her attentions planted seems to crack, as well as his own desires. So long without affection, even barest kindness; she felt like a gift, a balm over stinging wounds. To know he never truly had it…

Viciously he wishes he was whole, to be back to the form she wanted, not some limp mongrel to be looked on with pity and scorn. He wants to kiss her, pin her against the wall like before and touch her until she’s begging for it. Wants to leave marks on her for his look alike to see. To bring her to climax, **his** name on her lips, to be the one she looks at as she shakes apart around him.

The look alike cannot be Roman, not with a name like Naphtali. Had she not introduced him to Dominus as Decimus? A freedman then; a well-connected one at that, if he was in the employ of a Senator. Why not take what was so clearly offered? Ashur just had to look at them to know they were in love.

It pleases him to imagine fucking her and Naphtali coming in, watching them, knowing he has at least one thing the freedman doesn’t. But that is all it is, his imagination.

 

 

Naphtali has been with her since infancy, she has no memories of childhood held separate from him or his influence. Numeria never questioned if he was happy; he was treated like one of them, perhaps like an illegitimate child rather than her fathers heir. He knew it too, recognized early on the power he held in the household as her bodyslave. But he was still a slave and his power only extended to the household and what he could influence her father on. Having been sold so young he had no memory of his birth place. Only the word of the slaver gave any clue, that he was three years old and his mother from Sidon.

“‘You cannot miss what you do not remember,’” he had told her. Sometimes he missed his mother, bought separately, but her own mother was never able to locate her and she faded into cold memory.

However, a well-kept, much beloved slave was still a slave. She knew Naphtali would never leave her, knew it in her bones, but he also didn’t have the **choice**. If he wanted to be a lawyer or a money lender or even a painter he could do so as a freedman but not as her bodyslave. The thought moves her to ask her to free him as a wedding gift to her. Her father had chuckled indulgently, thinking his daughter was dreaming of husbands and sons. Three long years later he fulfilled his promise and the look of naked awe on Naphtali’s face fills her with shame.

Later Naphtali will tell her that he knew it was her. Father loved him but would not have thought to free him except in his will, mother would have done the same and Gaia would not have parted them, knowing how close they were. Through tear damp eyes she explains her reasoning and when he pulls her into a hug, clinging like a child and promising never to leave her, that is the moment it all makes sense.

She loves him, has always loved him and will always love him, just as he loves her, has always loved her and will always love her. It was foolish of her to doubt that.

 

 

In the morning she tells him everything: about Gaius, Tullius and Ulpius, about the lanista and his wife, and about her new lover. She does not trip over the words, though it is a near thing. Naphtali does not judge her for it either, though he has little room to speak.

“I understand it,” he finally says once her story is finished. “In the future I would advise you to use more caution or go for a faster kill, but I understand it.”

“And the gladiator?”

“Seek your pleasure wherever you may find it. I hold your heart and you hold mine, that is what matters.”

Numeria dares not ask about the future, will not bring the God’s displeasure on them.

 

 

At her wedding he stands by her family in brilliant blue robes, a gift from her sister. If she has an inkling that perhaps she’d like Naphtali in Titus’ place, it goes no further than her own head. For years her love quietly grows, filling in empty places and shares spaces Titus now holds, to her delight. Never in her wildest dreams did she imagine that she would love her husband as she does, with devotion rather than duty guiding her actions.

But Naphtali is never far from her mind. Soon after her son was born Naphtali took a wife. Four years older than him, Thalia was a Greek freedwoman of high learning, employed by a member of the Licini as a tutor to his children. With a sense of twisted pride and pleasure, Numeria saw that Thalia bore a strong resemblance to her. Black hair, blue eyes, tall and muscled for a woman. Her skin was closer to the olive of Naphtali than her almost Celtic-paleness, but they could be mistaken for cousins at a glance.  Her amusement did not escape her sisters gaze, nor Nero’s or Vopiscus’s.

Bless the Gods, her husband attributed it to a young woman’s insecurities after childbirth when he returned.

Like Vopiscus, Naphtali’s star rises by the end of the war, though it sinks in other ways. Thalia gives birth; long awaited and desired, she bears twins. Naphtali names them Decimus and Numeria, his Roman name and hers. If Thalia was a less controlled woman, Numeria believes she would have struck her.

 

Before she leaves, Numeria writes a letter, ordering one of her personal physicians from Rome to attend Ashur. It is cowardly but she wants to leave without saying goodbye, to hide behind false modesty and propriety. But in this her desire comes second; she will not be the kind of person who leaves a wounded man without a word. He is not her man, but she feels responsible.

In his little cell, he sits broken and alone. He raises his head when she comes in but says nothing, watching as she sits on a lone stool she had brought down for herself.

“Apologies, Numeria, but I cannot tend to you at the moment,” he says, gesturing to his leg, tone not unlike one discussing the weather.

“That’s not why I came to see you,” she says, uncomfortable with the weight of Ashur’s stare. “I came to say goodbye and to tell you that I’ve sent for my physician.”

“Gratitude,” he says, a little more life in this reply.

“I also wanted to show you these.” She pulls out four gold rings, two of them with diamonds, and a thick gold chain wound into her hair, bright against it’s darkness. “I seem to recall promising you a reward.”

Ashur is silent for so long her skin starts to itch before he takes the rings out of her hands, inspecting them one by one. The gold chain he saves for last, fingers running over the chain reverently. When he is done he hands them back to her, face grave as though he is to meet his death. “I had not realized I pleased you so. Gratitude for your generosity.”

“You brought sorely needed comfort,” she says, flushing at what was hinted. “I find myself growing accustomed to your company.”

“Shall I join you in Rome then?’

“No. Circumstances do not allow it.” It’s a pretty thought though, the Syrian in her own bed, spread out on her sheets. “I do not expect fidelity from you,” she begins awkwardly, “not when I cannot promise the same…”

“What can I do in this state?” He scowls.

“Plenty, in time.”

With her affairs in order she leaves, Naphtali and her boys at her side. She is unhappy to leave Capua behind, but Rome is calling.

**Author's Note:**

> *Cornicen – signal horn blowers  
> *Signifier – standard bearer of the legion  
> *Tribune – military officer above the Centurion but below the Legatus (General)  
> *Quaestor – a number of officers that handle expenditures in the Roman army, a treasurer of the army  
> *Aedile – public officials in charge of public buildings and games  
> *Denarii – type of currency  
> *Lanista – gladiator trainer  
> *Ludus – training ground  
> *Mediolanum – ancient Milan  
> *Medicus – a medical professional  
> *Neapolis – ancient Naples  
> *Vinalia – festival for wine harvesting, etc  
> *Paterfamilias – the head of the family  
> *Floralia – festival of the Goddess Flora  
> *Decanus – a lower rank in the Roman legion, comparable to a Corporal or a Sergeant
> 
> *officer – in this context
> 
> *I realize now that I’m messing up ranks vs duties, but for the sake of the story pretend that the Livia Drusus are well off and chose to serve Rome in more ‘earthy and traditional’ manner  
> *I also place this timeline roughly before the first Vinalia, so let’s say this starts in early April or late March


End file.
